Elizabeth Thornton (20 page)

Frowning, Hugh sat back on his heels. He’d forgotten about the episode in the customs house when Abbie had refused to pay duty on the books she’d bought in Paris. He began to bring that memory into focus: Abbie, as mad as a hornet when the customs officers confiscated her books. She’d been taken by surprise. In fact, she was shocked. She’d begged, she’d cajoled. The officers would not budge, and neither would she.

There was no doubt in Hugh’s mind that Abbie’s outrage had been genuine. She hadn’t planned to have the books impounded. She’d even turned her wrath on him.

The memory made him smile.

But this was no smiling matter. Abbie was in trouble up to her neck. The receipt might be just what it appeared to be, a book marker, or it might be something else entirely.

He folded the receipt and held it in the palm of his hand as though weighing its worth.

After a long time, he sighed, put everything back the way he had found it, then went through her portmanteau. There was little in it besides a shawl, a few pairs of gloves, and a muff. Inside the muff was a loaded pistol, but he couldn’t find extra balls or powder to arm the piece once it was spent. He shook his head. Harper was right. Abbie was a novice with guns. She didn’t think ahead. Her portmanteau would be stored with the baggage when she was traveling, where she could not get to it. So even the pistol was useless. He would have to point out to her that one did not carry a pistol for show. It was too dangerous.

He returned to his chair, and for a long, long time, sat there, slumped inelegantly as he went over everything
he’d learned tonight. Sighing, he shook his head. He did not have much choice. The book was crucial. He had to get Abbie to hand it over or tell him where she was hiding it, even if it meant frightening the truth out of her.

Better that he should question her than Maitland.

A
bbie rolled to her side and slowly opened her eyes. The pale light of dawn filtered through the gauze curtains at the window and glazed the empty chair that was pulled close to her bed, the chair Hugh had occupied last night. The fire was reduced to embers and the candles had gone out. From downstairs came the comforting sounds of the house stirring—doors opening and closing, the murmur of voices, faint laughter.

A sigh shuddered out of her, then another, but her eyes were dry. She’d done all her crying yesterday when she awakened to find Hugh gone. Until then, she’d been in command of herself; she’d found reserves of strength to go on when everything that could possibly go wrong had gone wrong. She hadn’t lost hope. She’d told herself that as long as she had the book, nothing could happen to George.

She hadn’t counted on anything happening to Hugh, not again. It had never occurred to her that he would return to the inn to try to discover who their assailants
were. They’d beaten him with their pistols. Next time, they might kill him! All this had gone through her head, and before Tom stopped speaking she’d turned into a spitting, snarling wild cat.

Then, as suddenly as the madness had come upon her, it subsided, and she’d plunged into black despair. She’d tried to pray, but she couldn’t find the words. All she could think about was Hugh, how she’d failed him, how she was responsible for putting him in danger. If it had not been for her, he’d be safe in his own house in Bath.

When he walked into her room and said her name, she’d felt like a murderess whose death sentence had been commuted. She’d wanted to touch him, hold him, just to make sure he was all right. The next minute, her mind must have snapped, because she’d wanted to kill him. She hated him for all the torments he’d put her through. But when her anger was spent, she knew it wasn’t true. She could never hate Hugh.

She was on the point of rising and had just pushed back the covers when there was a knock at the door. At her command, the door opened and Hugh entered.

“Good. You’re awake,” he said.

He crossed to the bed, tipped up her chin, and kissed her with a proficiency that made her head swim. Her fingers clenched and unclenched around his arms. Her skin began to heat, and her blood pumped wildly through her veins.

Her head was still swimming when he broke the kiss. He took her hands in his and said seriously, “We’re leaving in a few minutes, Abbie, on horseback, so I want you to get dressed in something suitable and come downstairs.”

The gravity of his expression brought her abruptly to her senses. “How can we leave? What about the roads?”

“The snow is melting. And it’s started to rain. In another hour or two, the roads will be passable.”

“Passable?” she repeated dully, as her mind grappled with her growing alarm. “Then why don’t we take the carriage?”

He shook his head. “It’s too risky, too easily recognized. We want to slip away quietly. We’ll ride out on horseback, go around Hungerford, and come out at Newbury where we’ll hire a chaise to get us to London.”

“But why all the secrecy? What’s wrong, Hugh?”

He looked down at their clasped hands and caressed the back of her fingers with his thumbs, then he looked up at her. “I couldn’t tell you the truth last night,” he said, “because you were distraught.” He paused. “The authorities are looking for us. They say that we murdered a man, that they found his body in your room at the Castle.”

She stuttered, then got out, “Murdered someone? In my room? But that’s impossible! Who—who was he?”

“Alex Ballard. He and I worked together for a time at the foreign office. Do you remember him, Abbie?”

She nodded numbly. “I met him in Paris, at the embassy. You introduced us. He talked about his wife and children. He was a nice man.”

Hugh waited, and when she was silent, he went on, “He turned up in Bath recently and came to see me.”

“But they can’t think
we
had anything to do with his murder!”

“I’m afraid they do. What’s worse is that I know the man who is in charge of the investigation, and I don’t trust him. It’s Richard Maitland, and he’d do anything
to discredit me. He seems to think that you stole a book that belongs to him, that Ballard was murdered trying to get it back, and that I knew about it and am trying to protect you.”

Her mind was numb with fear, and the anguished words tumbled out before she had time to consider them. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It seemed so simple. I would get the book, and George …”

When she looked up at him with huge, frightened eyes, he grasped her by the shoulders. “So that’s the real reason for this journey—the book!”

She gazed at him mutely, but the answer was in her eyes.

“And what about George?” he went on relentlessly. “Finish what you were saying. You would get the book, and George …”

When he administered a rough shake, she cried out, “George would be safe!”

He straightened and frowned down at her. “George is behind all this?”

“No!”

“Then who is?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is George?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s gone into hiding, is that it? And he’s letting you help him out of a scrape?”

“It’s not like that,” she said miserably.

“Then what is it like? Tell me!”

She felt as though she were standing on the edge of a precipice. One false step and she would go over. Everything was happening too fast. She wanted time to think, time to consider how much she should tell Hugh. But
time was something he wasn’t going to give her. She’d never seen him look so stern.

She moistened her lips. “All I know is that I have to get the book.”

“Tell me about Colette. How did you meet her? What happened there, Abbie?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know anyone by that name!”

“I’ll wager George does. Did he tell you what to write to Michael Lovatt?”

“No!” she cried out.

“What’s in the book?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is it? Where did George hide it?”

She raised her head. He’d got the wrong idea about George. For a second, a fraction of a second, the words trembled on her lips, and in that moment of indecision, she took a step back from the brink. “In the vault of my bank in Pall Mall.”

He frowned. “If it’s in your bank vault, then you must have put it there. When did you do that, Abbie?”

She’d almost blundered, but she recovered herself well. “The last time I was in London. You remember, on my way home from Paris, I stayed on in town for a while?”

“George gave you the book in Paris?”

Hugh would know that all the books she’d acquired in Paris had been impounded by customs because he’d been there. “No. He sent it to me at Vayle House and asked me to keep it safe for him. Oh Hugh, I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.”

At those words, he exhaled a long, telling breath, cupped her face in both hands, and smiled into her eyes. “Don’t look so guilt stricken,” he said. “You did right to tell me. And don’t worry about betraying George’s confidence.
You’ve saved his neck and ours as well. Silly young cub. I suppose he got mixed up in this in Paris and got in over his head. Well, we can sort that out later. The important thing now is to get hold of that book and get it to the right people.”

“Who are these people? What are you talking about?”

“British intelligence. I know some of these people from my work at the foreign office. Their chief is … well … a personal friend. Colonel Langley. He’s a good man. He’ll listen to us.”

She cried out, “How will that help us when a man has been murdered?”

“The men who attacked me were probably the ones who murdered Ballard. They want that book and they want it badly. That’s another reason we have to leave here as quickly as possible.”

He kissed her swiftly. “Now get dressed and come downstairs. We’ll go through this in more detail when we’ve put some miles between us and our pursuers.”

At the door, he turned back. “Just one last question, Abbie. Once you had the book, what were you going to do with it?”

She looked directly into his eyes. The time for indecision and second thoughts was over. She’d burned her bridges. She had to brazen it out. “I was going to send it back to myself at Bath,” she said. “That’s where George would pick it up.”

His eyes flared. “It was a good plan. Then what?”

He had the tenacity of a bulldog. It was one of the traits she’d always admired in him, this refusal to let things go until he’d plumbed their depths. That’s how they’d come to suspect there was a Roman temple beneath the abbey in Bath. In this context, it was unnerving.

“He said it would save his life,” she said. “And that’s all he would tell me.”

His voice gentled. “Nothing will happen to George. Abbie, trust me. George is out of it. It’s us they want now. And I’d die before I’d let anything happen to you. Now, get dressed,” and he left her.

She stared at the closed door in abject misery as Hugh’s words sank into her. With a soft cry of despair, she slid from the bed and, after opening her box, began to hunt through it for something suitable to wear.

She’d made a pact with herself. When this was over, she would never lie to Hugh again. And she would do everything in her power to bring these villains to justice.

After it was over. When George was safe.

She could visualize how it would be. She would go to Hugh and confess everything. She would explain how she’d felt, and that she’d had no choice, and she could not take chances with her brother’s life. These were desperate men. There was nothing they wouldn’t do. When she explained all this to Hugh, she was sure he would understand.

The reality was, she was not sure of anything. She’d toyed with the idea of asking for Hugh’s help, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. He kept telling her how important it was to get the book to the right people. But the right people, in Hugh’s view, were members of British intelligence.

If she gave the book to them, she might as well sign George’s death warrant. She couldn’t do it. She simply could not do it. Did that make her a traitor?

It was so unfair. She was as patriotic as the next person.
No one should have to make these choices. If England had been at war, it would have been different.…

It wouldn’t have been different. She would still choose George first.

“Abbie, what is it? What are you thinking?”

At the sound of Hugh’s voice, she came out of her reverie. There hadn’t been much opportunity to talk when they were on horseback, but now that they were in a closed chaise, he’d gone over her story again and again. She’d tried to keep it simple and vague, but he’d pressed her on things she had to know. And with each lie she told, the web of deceit became more and more tangled.

“Abbie?” he prompted.

“It all seems so fantastic,” she said, “like a bad dream.”

His hand closed around hers. “It won’t be for long. We’ll reach the outskirts of London tonight. And tomorrow, when we get the book and give it to Langley, the nightmare will end, and we’ll be out of it. It will be up to others to track down those murdering swine and punish them. Just one more day, Abbie.”

He tipped up her chin with one long finger and gave her a searching look. “Abbie,” he said, “don’t be so hard on yourself for telling me the truth. You did the right thing, not only for George’s sake, but for ours as well. I already suspected that you and George were in some kind of trouble. I was waiting for you to confide in me. So no more secrets, Abbie. Promise you won’t lie to me again.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I promise.”

“Try to get some sleep. This has been a grueling day. I’m proud of you, Abbie. Even Harper said you were a regular trooper, and coming from him, that is as extravagant a compliment as you’ll ever hear.”

She smiled, then she rested her head in the crook of his shoulder and obediently closed her eyes. But she couldn’t sleep for thinking. The nightmare wasn’t over yet. Tonight they would reach the outskirts of London, and tomorrow Hugh would discover that she’d told him a pack of lies.

He had everything planned down to the last detail, or so he thought. She would only get in the way, he’d said, so she would remain behind with Tom while he and Harper went to the bank. When he had the book he would give it to Colonel Langley, but only in exchange for amnesty for her and George. If they could prove their innocence—and Hugh was sure that they could—well and good. But in any event, he would insist on amnesty for them before he handed over the book.